Boxes
by petite etoile22
Summary: Two exiled spies find a funny kind of friendship out in the cold.


**So this is basically a crack!fic plot based on a Ruth/Ros friendship whilst they're in exile.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Spooks, it's the property of Kudos and the BBC.**

* * *

Ruth doesn't even know she's seen her when she does. She's just sitting in a little side street restaurant, watching the world go by, when she sees a part of the world that doesn't sit right with her. It is a couple; well, just a man and a woman if she's honest. Since her death, Ruth finds herself seeing love everywhere. Perhaps that's why she feels so settled in Paris, the supposed 'city of love'. They're arguing; actually, the man seems to be hurling abuse at the woman from what Ruth can lip read. The woman snaps, delves into her bag and throws a wad of cash at him. He walks away, satisfied. The woman only walks a few yards before she is backhanded and thrown to the ground by some criminal opportunists who make off with her bag. The good citizen in Ruth goes to help the woman lying in the road.

"Excuse me, are you alright?"

" I'm fine." The woman's speech is heavy and thick. Ruth notices rivulets of crimson blood on the grey concrete.

"You don't look it. Can I at least call you a cab?"

"They don't tend to stop where I live at this time of night," she jests, struggling to straighten herself. When she does, Ruth nearly faints. Her hair may be shorter and darker, her frame painfully thin, but the woman standing in front of her is definitely Ros Myers.

"What happened?"

"I went back to save the love of your life, and got myself killed in the process."

"He does have a habit of doing that to us women, doesn't he?"

"I should go."

"You're still bleeding."

"I'll be fine."

"Yes, your malnourished body tells me to believe that statement."

"Fine, you can escort me home. Though I don't know why you'd bloody want to." Despite her fall, Ruth still has to jog to catch up with Ros.

* * *

Upon seeing the blonde's dwelling, Ruth decides that 'home' is a very loose turn of phrase indeed. It is a studio apartment in one of the more seedier parts of Montmartre, with no proper heating and a very temperamental water supply. The room is sparsely decorated and the only light comes from the smattering of candles and the wood burning stove in the corner.

"Aren't those illegal?"

"No one gives a shit as long as you pay your rent on time. That's what the fight was about by the way. I was a day late; Guillaume was sick on payday."

"Guillaume?"

"My boss; he's the caretaker of the cemetery. I tend graves."

"Oh."

"One of the reasons why I chose this place; easy commute."

It is only now that Ruth notices that Ros's view is that of hundreds of rows of tombstones. Though from this height, they look like blobs of grey paint on a green canvas.

"Would you like some coffee?" Ros asks busying herself with a pan at the stovetop.

"Yes, please. You never did tell me your name by the way."

"It's Astrid."

"Emily."

"I'm afraid I haven't got any sugar or milk," Ros apologises bashfully, setting down two chipped mugs of steaming black coffee. Ruth observes that there isn't much else in the way of nutrition. She leaves half an hour later, giving Ros her number. The blonde can't reciprocate the gesture as she hasn't got a phone due to the mugging.

"You should contact the police."

"An illegal immigrant going to the authorities? I'd rather not."

"I have a contact who could sort that problem out."

"That's the least of my worries," she replies enigmatically, before shutting the door.

* * *

It's over a month before Ruth gets a phone call from Ros. It's abrupt; just a place and a time. A cold snap has come over the city, and Ruth pulls her thick wool coat tighter round her body. She catches sight of Ros sitting on a nearby bench. Her thin jacket and cardigan, even with her thick knitted scarf, are no match for the winter cold. She smiles as Ruth advances, picking up her small brown paper bag of groceries, before standing up to greet her. Ruth conceals her shiver when they shake hands.

"You're freezing."

"It's nothing. There's a great book fair round the corner from here; I thought you might like it." she suggests, changing the subject from her personal well-being.

They walk in silence, each lost in their thoughts. The fair is small and intimate, smelling of dust and mould. Ruth stops as a tome catches her eye; it is some obscure classical play she studied once at university. It reminds her of more romantic times.

"We'll take it," a voice behind her states.

"Astrid, I-I couldn't..."

"You can. Think of it as a thank you."

"I mean-"

"Come on, I'll take you for lunch. My place, of course."

The stove does little to keep the cold at bay. Ruth shivers involuntarily and gasps as Ros makes her way down the fire escape, barefoot. She returns five minutes later with a handful of spices and herbs. She gazes at Ruth in bemused puzzlement.

"What?"

"You're barefoot. It must be below zero out there!"

"Oh, right. It's complicated."

"What happened to you?"

"Like I said, it's complicated Emily."

"Well, I have time to spare."

Ros sighs, knowing she can't get out of this conversation. She puts all her efforts into stirring the thin stew she is making, and when she speaks her words are barely audible.

"I was looking for Zaf, proof he was still alive. They broke into my flat, took me, and tortured me." Ros laughs, mildly unnerving Ruth. "Only it wasn't torture; it was just a jumped-up initiation ceremony for this group called Yalta. I betrayed the grid, I betrayed the team...and I was caught. So I tricked Yalta into believing I had tricked Harry. And it worked, until my conscience kicked in and I just _had _to save Harry. I had to prove I was worth his belief in me..."

Ruth stays silent, knowing she would continue.

"And when Juliet stuck that needle in my neck, you know what he said? 'You are _my _outstanding officer'. And I was ready, I was ready to die. Then I woke up in a coffin at my own funeral. And Bob Hogan made them believe he thought I was dead. I got to the cemetery gates... I only got to the gates before I was captured and sent to this torture cell called The Redbacks..."

Ros turns her back to hastily wipe the tears from her eyes and serves lunch without another word.

* * *

It's nearly christmas when Ros sees Ruth again, and when she does, she's forced to listen to a diatribe about going to the hospital.

"Emily, it's just a little cough," she wheezes.

"We'll let the doctor decide that shall we?"

"I can't do this," she mutters, walking out onto the fire escape and ending the conversation. Ten minutes later, Ruth finds her curled up on the metal staircase, her breathing a half- wheeze, half-cough. Ruth places a tentative hand on the blonde's forehead; she's burning up.

"We're going, and we're going now."

"It'll pass E-" her sentence is interrupted by a severe coughing fit.

"No it won't. I'm not stupid, and I'm taking you to the hospital whether you like it or not!" she snaps, awkwardly supporting the taller woman in her arms.

"I don't have any...p-papers......chest...fuck!"

"I have a friend, he may be able to help."

"How many bloody friends do you have in this place?"

Ruth manages to get Ros to the clinic, where her friend arranges a private room. Ros lies in the hospital bed, deathly pale, sweat pooling in her now distressingly prominent collarbone.

"Where did you find her?"

"Montmartre. Will she be okay?"

"At the moment, she can't breathe properly without oxygen to help. How the hell did she let it get this bad?"

"I wouldn't know. I found her-"

"Don't lie to me Emily, kind as you are, I don't think you'd go to these lengths for a stranger."

"Fine," Ruth sighs, "we used to go to school together. I was her peer councillor when her father got sent to prison."

"What for?"

"...Murder," she states quietly, remembering Colin. "Anyway, we lost contact in year 11. She ran away."

"And wound up here of all places."

"I know. I don't understand it myself," she whispers, allowing her doubts to surface. "You'll have to ask her about the rest. I doubt she'll be forthcoming."

She's right.

And that's the politer version of events.

* * *

Ruth visits her at home, making sure Ros sticks to her recovery plan. As much as the blonde should be annoyed, she finds she enjoys the company; the fact that somebody cares. Ruth brings her chicken noodle soup and they spend hours talking about anything but the old days. Ruth pretends she doesn't notice the burns and scars covering nearly every inch of her friend's torso and legs when she changes from her pyjamas, that the scars punctuating the length of the blonde's arms aren't consistent with the pins and braces applied to one's arms after extensive breakages.

"I suppose I should thank you Ruth." Ros states weakly. Ruth is shocked by the use of her old name.

"I suppose you should...Rosalind."

"Well then, would you like to hear the rest of my story as a reward?"

"I-If-It-"

"Stop fretting. You should understand me well enough by now to know that if I didn't want to tell you, I wouldn't be asking if you wanted to listen."

"Okay, you can tell me." Ruth confirms, fiddling with her cutlery.

"Two rules. One, no interjections of pity. Two, no fiddling."

Ruth clasps her hands in her lap. "Fine."

* * *

_Ros makes it to the gates before she feels the burning sting of the mace in her her eyes, and the harsh crack of the baton as it renders her unconscious. Her last thought before it all goes black is that the bag must've given her away. She never was a big fan of red. Ros comes round, only to be faced with a blinding light in her eyes. Her tongue is swollen and her mouth feels like she's eaten an ungodly amount of sand. She is vaguely aware of her left eye being clamped shut by the dried blood from her head injury. Perhaps Hogan will take it upon himself to 'interrogate' her. She is raised from her thoughts by the entrance of a thin, willowy man with glasses. _

_Perhaps not._

"_Miss Myers, we are delighted to have your acquaintance"_

"_I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you"_

_She sits bound to the chair at her neck, hands bound to something behind her back. Ros has been here for three weeks now and the routine is pretty much the same: She's beaten, tortured, and left to wallow in pools of her own blood, faeces, or self-pity depending on what method of torture her generous companions had decided to bestow upon her. Ros feels deserted in the silence of her cell. She knows no one can possibly know of her disappearance, but for some reason she still thinks Harry and the others will burst in and save her. Lights burst forth over her eyes, eradicating any hope of maintaining a coherent train of thought. Somewhere outside the blinding light, there is the familiar puckering sound of the electrodes being attached to various parts of her body as they prepare to start the session. When they pass the current through her body, the lights flicker and for an instant she remembers the summer when she, Sally, and Phillip went stargazing with their father. In truth, it was more Sally and Phillip as she had been scared of the dark then; she still is really. They break to ask her questions._

"_Where is she?"_

"_Who?"_

"_Where is she?"_

"_In a trace of pleasure or regret..." she sings._

_That piece of piss-take is rewarded with a broken jaw._

_The next day she's raped, and Ros is shocked to find herself devastated by the action. She isn't supposed to care; she knows it's a form of torture, she's even suffered it twice before. Then she realises that twice before, she had a home to go to. Twice before, she had a family, a team, and a job to support her. Twice before, she wasn't alone. She doesn't cry, she refuses to give them that satisfaction. It has begun and she knows how it will end; she will wait and death will come._

_Ros can't tell how long she's been here now. She likes to think she's been holding out for at least two and a half months. Her jaw has been healing nicely too and it means she hasn't had a chance to break and tell all. Ros isn't planning on staying that long. She looks down at herself, shaking her head in thought. She won't get far with a sprained ankle, broken ribs, dislocated shoulders, fingers, and other injuries she daren't think of. And so, in true Ros-like fashion, she sets about reducing these 'inconveniences'. Using what's left of her top as a gag, Ros proceeds to manipulate her shoulder and finger joints back into place. She tears strips of cloth from what are meant to be her trousers and attempts to fashion a makeshift support for her ankle. She's assured of no suspicion; she's done this numerous times before, hence the lack of decent clothing. Ros has come to learn their routine by heart and by ear. She's learnt that every other day, there's a car parked outside not 10 paces from her cell. _

_Ros scrambles through her hay bedding and retrieves her most prized possession; a shank carved from a plastic toothbrush she'd stolen from one of the guards. He hadn't been aware of the loss of such a trivial item (he was occupied at the time), but she had noted the gain. The blade sits cushioned between her angular hip bone and the thread bare waistband of her underwear. She's just about to run through her desperate plan one last time when her cell door swings open. The willowy man with glasses enters and she notes his lascivious stare at where her fingers lie nestled under her waistband, caressing the handle of her lovingly hewn weapon. Ros returns the stare with equal measure._

_He will be the first to die._

"_You're free to go Miss Myers."_

"_Free?" _

_She hates the fact that she stumbles over herself, that she questions her reality. A part of her expects an electric shock, or some other painful horror to wake her from this blissful, dream-like situation._

"_Well, we no longer own you."_

"_Who does?"_

"_Your government. Hogan sold you to them in a bid to reduce his sentence."_

"_When can I speak to Harry? I need-"_

"_Harry Pearce knows nothing of this arrangement. I'm afraid you'll never see him again. You've been given Burn Notice. Now please, you're taking up valuable storage space."_

_Ros feels the panic swell within her very core. She never believed she could develop Stockholm syndrome; and so intensely too. These people chose to keep her alive, and for that very reason, they saved her over and over again._

"_What do I do now?"_

"_A colleague will take you to your assigned destination. The rest is up to you."_

"_No legend? Nothing?"_

"_Look, you've been burned so bad they haven't even given you a change of clothes. And I doubt where you end up will encourage your successful existence either. We're the most supportive party you have at the moment, and we're in the business of taking rather than giving."_

"_Will they put me in the boot again?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Can you leave me be?"_

_The man allows her this final request. She realises now that she held onto futile hope. For some reason, even now when she braced herself for a suicidal fight to the death with a make-shift weapon, she still thought Section D would be her knights in shining armour. She hides the blade in a crack in the wall, and prays that the next occupant will have the ability to do what hope prevented her from achieving, and what her tormentors chose not to do._

_Hours later, Ros comes round to find herself in a dank alleyway, in another city, in some other land. The streetlights are broken, and her sole shelter that night is a doorway of some derelict house._

_If she was alive before, she's dead now. _

* * *

"How did you get this place then?"

"Guillaume took me in, and when I'd scraped together enough money, I started to rent this place."

"I'm sorry, but couldn't you have done better? I mean, you seemed so driven on the Grid."

"It's safer this way, believe me."

Her tone of voice indicates that for now, the conversation is over.

* * *

They don't see each other again until the following christmas, though it is not for Ruth's want of trying. The brunette feels slightly guilty for using the sudden cold snap and the blonde's still fragile lungs as means to finally corner her. This time, Ros only puts up the slightest of fights as she is man-handled into a taxi and taken to the doctor. The doctor who advises her that it might be for the best if she moved out of her current accommodation, as it wasn't really aiding her recovery. Ruth pulls her away before she can start a half arsed argument. After all, they both know he's right.

"What are you doing for christmas?" Ruth asks, already knowing the answer.

"Nothing. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I mean there is a reason, but it's not really a reason, well not an important one-"

"You're rambling." Ros cuts in softly.

"I have some friends coming over for christmas dinner, and I wanted to extend the invitation to you."

"Ruth," the blonde begins with a self-deprecating laugh, "I don't think I'm going to be good enough for your friends."

"I rather think it would be the other way around. I mean, how often can they claim to save their nation from catastrophe? And despite what you say, I know you share similar interests to me. I've seen the books hidden around your flat, and the look on your face when we entered that book fair."

"Fine. But don't think for a second that these dinners will become a common occurrence."

It's snowing; the first white christmas Ruth can remember in years. She can barely contain her festive spirit when she opens the door to very cold looking Ros. She's still wearing that thread-bare jacket of hers, and Ruth silently praises herself for buying the woman a proper winter coat as part of her present.

"I brought wine. Shall I put the presents under the tree?"

"Thank you, and yes, that would be lovely." Ruth notes, that her companion is blushing slightly, and wonders if she ever really knew Ros at all until their afterlife. "The others are coming at 4. So, just make yourself at home."

"Then I'll help you. I always used to help my mum; I was the only one she allowed near the kitchen."

"Potatoes. They're they only thing left to do."

Ruth can't help but marvel at the sight of the crisp, golden spuds coming out of the oven. The aroma of spices and herbs is overwhelming, and she swears her eyes are pricking with tears.

"What are they?" she breathes.

"Potatoes. I didn't overcook them, did I?"

"No. They're perfect. Who taught you how to make them?"

"No one. It's my own recipe. I hope you don't mind, it's just how I always make them, I can-"

"You're rambling." Ruth notes with a smile. "When did you learn to ramble?"

"From you, I suspect. You were a terrible influence on me...back then..." Ros admits softly, eyes cast downwards. "You made me care."

* * *

Ros tolerates all Ruth's friends' stares, and gratefully accepts the winter coat along with the theology book, which she thinks it far too much compared to her thrift-shop necklace and poetry book. She stays the night because Ruth tells her that no one should spend christmas alone, even if they are dead to the rest of the world. They drink mulled wine and talk to each other as if they're normal people, who aren't dead and in exile, who haven't spent most of their adult lives living amongst secrets and lies. Ros curls up beneath a blanket, its warmth giving her a sleepy demeanour that belies the sharp edge in her eyes.

"You know, you didn't have to worry about me. I had a tree and some food. I wasn't planning to spend the day sitting in a bare room by myself."

"I'm sorry. I just assu-"

"Most people do, and it's a fair assumption. But I like Christmas, despite everything."

"You mean the Redbacks."

"No, not at all. I mean, despite being tortured at the age of 23, on christmas day. My cover was blown wide open, and as a result I betrayed myself."

"Ros, no one at your age would be expected to hold their own. You'd have to bre-"

"I didn't break Ruth. I never have, and I never will. No, I promised myself that if I survived, I'd walk away; from the Service, from everything."

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't. I wanted to know why. I wanted there to be a good and decent reason for what I went through. I realised that I could only get that if I carried on; if I lived through it. Some kind of tribute to my experience, I suppose. And sure, I've been tortured since, and it's been far worse physical torture, but mentally? Nothing compares to feeling your bones crumple beneath your flesh, all the while knowing that years ago this day would've held a whole other, happier significance for you. It rips you of any innocence you might've still managed to hide from them. Once they've taken that, there's nothing left; you're unbreakable."

"So why are you doing this to yourself now? You live in squalor, and gamble with your health. You died Ros. Whether it was permanent or not, you died. The Ros that committed those betrayals is dead; you don't have to punish yourself anymore. You were given a second chance, so just drop the self-pity and move on."

They are silent, both women subdued by the sudden outburst and wine. Ros is unable to explain this seemingly drastic shift in character, until the next morning, when she remembers something she read in a handbook somewhere.

"Boxes."

"Pardon?"

"Our lives, our personalities, our legends; all kept in boxes. This _is_ me, I've just opened another box. A box no one had ever seen before, not even myself. I was burned Ruth, and I know who did it, and why they did it, and I also know that they're probably dead by now. So I put Rosalind Myers into a box, taped it shut, and opened another one. The box of a person who had nothing and would be given nothing. Because nothingness removes the possibility of hope, a hope is a dangerous thing for people like us."

"It's the only thing that kept me going at the beginning." Ruth fiddles with the hem of her jumper, thinking about all those postcards she sent; still sends. She even did 'The Grand Tour'.

"But it's a lie Ruth. Hope makes us believe that nothing has changed in our absence, when you know it has. I've got a question for you, two actually. Do you still have this ridiculous notion of hope?"

Ruth thinks back to the past year or so, and decides that even with Ros of all people by her side, she doesn't have hope. She doesn't have despair either, but she knows that's not the same as having hope.

"No, not anymore."

Ros nods, as if the satisfaction that Ruth's answer brings, is like a password allowing her to ask her next question.

"And does that gift-wrapped box lying under the tree, that definitely wasn't there last night, belong to me or to you?"


End file.
